


ars moriendi

by Yenneffer



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Gen, Implied Character Death, POV Second Person, POV Third Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-02
Updated: 2013-06-02
Packaged: 2017-12-13 19:19:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/827904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yenneffer/pseuds/Yenneffer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your thoughts encounter a solid wall of silence, and you shudder away, back into shadowy veils of oblivion. The bottle is safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ars moriendi

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little one-shot for now, but I might develop it further in the future.

The taste, the smell is sour, a sudden bitterness in your mouth you wash away with more of this sordid liquid.

You have to close your eyes. Only for a moment, you tell yourself. A moment sufficient to take one more little sip. The tasteless drink covers with mist your surroundings, a fiery glow behind your eyelids drawing you nearer.

You can forget the future and remember the past. You can do anything in this single moment of omnipotence.

The bottle is shallow enough, and the cooling darkness of  _here_  far away enough. And you take what you can.

The bottle is sharp, a tongue of taste you remember from nights that were both different and similar, and you close your eyes wishing it to last like you always did in the past, the slipping out of your reach senses telling you it can, you can, and it will, as you will.

You will stay here.

You remember the sophisticated power of porto, the red rich enough to burn you and explode beneath your skin. It mixed well with elaborate women, suited their pride even as the powerful taste drained it out of them.

The smooth bottle, you imagine, might have once held an exuberant champagne, the striking euphoria of all the alcohols. It was never ordinary, swimming intakes of stars themselves as you swung your arm around somebody, content and focused on the wet kiss that didn’t taste of blood, grime, friendship.

The only taste you wanted to feel was that of a champagne.

The beer was quick and easy, always welcome, the memory accompanied by the meaningful clinking of bottle against bottle, toasts honest enough that you could be happy. Sometimes followed by hugs, and you didn’t hug people who were undeserving, no, you didn’t hug people at all, but they were like your brothers, as drunk and happy as you, clinking their bottles against yours, and swinging their heads back in one swift sip.

Sometimes there were hazy memories of bodies that were warm enough, faceless enough to bury yourself in them, and you had no need for faces, no, never had, you gripped and swore and took, and then there was a reassuring cold surface of full bottle, again, and the body with its warmth went on, someplace else, to one of the others, to your mates and brothers, yes, you loved them enough to call them that.

You filled the bottles with sodden blood when they were empty of alcohol. You tried to fill them with dried memories of the day that preceded, and sometimes you might have succeeded.

You screamed, you sang, you cheered, and you took all you could, just because you could.

Your thoughts encounter a solid wall of silence, and you shudder away, back into shadowy veils of oblivion. The bottle is safe.

You reach the point where your eyes can no longer see the bars of your cell, focus on them. Your mind stopped trying to come up with a plan to sneak past them hours ago, turning to the bottle that you could empty alone, and you did, because you could, you could do anything, anything you wanted.

You wanted this.

The last bottle of the convict. Last surge of memories, not brave enough to cross the wall, but otherwise safe in every territory of your mind.

The cold of the floor is reassuring against your cheek. It dances around your eyes, just beyond the reach of your vision. You close your eyelids against it, and it’s good to be able to breath, and there is still a sound of liquor in the bottle, even though your senses are too overwhelmed already to feel the taste that is alive, and that’s enough, there’s no need for rich and delicious now, no want of laughter and singing and impulsive hugs.

The past is safe.

***

The stumbling man is led to the backyard, closing his eyes as two guards hold his arms and drag him forward. It’s bright, and his unanswering mind has no need for bright now. His hands clench uselessly, shallow cuts bringing crimson to the pale skin, edges of sharp glass phantom on his hands.

One last act of submission as the cloth is tied over his face. Close eyes help, so you shut them from the world and darkness engulfing you, and even now, it’s better than the bright sun.


End file.
